#existing in depraved solidarity | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

bffsoobin · 3 years

Text

amortentia

↳year six potions class was never particularly exciting to you- as a Slytherin with much more interest in Transfiguration- but alas, it’s required to graduate. You thought the class couldn’t be any more of an inconvenience, but upon being paired with infamous Gryffindor Beomgyu, you find yourself proven wrong.

➤ gryffindor!beomgyu xslytherin!reader, harry potter!au, enemies to lovers, a little slow burn, fluff

Word Count: ~11k

Requested?: kinda? anon requested a Beomgyu oneshot with no specifics and I spit this out of some depraved, Harry Potter obsessed corner of my mind.

Warnings: mentions of drinking, usual e2l arguments, swearing, usual Gryffindor-Slytherin insults and tension

A/N: I hope the anon who asked for a Beomgyu oneshot is happy with this!! I finally felt like I had enough time to write a proper hogwarts au so here it is! Also I purposely avoided using any professor names that are clearly linked with the actual Harry Potter series purely because of timeline continuity! Bonus points if you can guess who Georgiana is related to before I point it out :) ALSO this is so long and I feel so rusty so I hope it’s okay lmao

•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•☾☼☽•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:••:•.•

The sound of your quill scratching against parchment filled your quiet corner of the common room, allowing you a feeling of solidarity and peace you’d been craving since you arrived back to the castle a few days ago. Of course you’d been excited to be back, sharing the meal in the Great Hall with all of your friends happily as you watched the wide-eyed first years get sorted into their houses. It was hard to believe that 6 years ago that had been you waiting to find your place within the walls of Hogwarts.

As always, the buzz of the beginning of a new year wore on your nerves. Despite your love for your friends, their energy was- in your opinion- completely draining. You much preferred the moments of quiet serenity that the stone laden dungeon common room afforded you. The last few embers of a fire lit hours before winked at you from across the room, tempting you to raise your wand and reignite them. After a moment you decided against the movement, as you were presumably the only one awake at this hour and the light of the cedar scented candle you’d brought down with you from your suitcase provided enough light for you anyway.

The scratch of your quill stilled as you flipped to the next page, careful not to accidentally bend the corners of the book you’d just purchased. Several detailed diagrams detailed the process of transfiguring plants to inanimate objects to animals then back to plants and you felt your heart swell with excitement. Transfiguration was hands down your favorite subject, and you’d been craving to learn this process in particular since it had been mentioned offhandedly in class last year. You scrambled to pick up your quill, happy that you’d splurged for the instantly refilling model as ink flowed flawlessly against the parchment.

A sudden crash from the entrance of the common room popped your comfortable bubble of silence harshly as you clambered for your wand.

“Who’s there?” You yelled, annoyance and surprise mixing to raise your voice considerably. For a moment you heard nothing as you advanced closer to the door, keeping the three wide stone steps between you and who- or what- ever was behind the door. The door shook a few times before finally flying open, revealing three very normal looking boys stumbling through the threshold. They were all hanging on one another, stumbling over their feet as they pushed into the common room. You recognized the one in the middle instantly as Choi Yeonjun, fellow Slytherin and current Head Boy of the house. He was a year older than you but you knew him well for his infectious laughter and notoriously good grades despite never studying. His cheeks were flushed and his feet unsteady, but he held a charming grin through it all. The identity of whoever was supporting him on the left was a mystery to you, but the boy supporting him from the right sent alarm bells off in your head.

“Beomgyu?” Your voice left you before you could rein yourself in, and you would have cringed had it not been for the hatred brewing under your skin. Here he was, the one person you tried to forget existed every single summer. And he had been part of the ruckus that pulled you from your reading. He didn’t say anything as the three boys stumbled past you, dumping Yeonjun onto one of the soft black leather sofas.

“Hello?” You felt like you were in some kind of time warp, somehow totally invisible to the three of them as they sorted themselves out; Beomgyu and the other boy straightening out their clothing and Yeonjun lolling his head back on the cushions with a content sigh.

“Oh, hey Y/N.” Beomgyu finally drawled, sticking his hands in the front pockets of his trousers. He was still wearing his robes, layered over a sensible gray wool sweater and black uniform slacks. His striped red and gold tie hung off of his neck slightly, obviously having been loosened at some point in the night. He donned the same Head Boy pin Yeonjun did, but in the same colorway as his robes and tie. Loud, obnoxious, attention seeking red and gold.

“Hey? How about instead of “hey” you tell me why the hell you’re barging into my common room at some ungodly hour of the night! Don’t you have somewhere else to be, Head Boy?” The unidentified boy behind him froze as his eyes widened, apparently feeling the sting of your icy words much more than Beomgyu. He just lifted a lazy eyebrow, guiding his annoyingly confident gaze over your body. Fucking Gryffindors and their confidence. It was suffocating.

“Well you see, Y/N. Yeonjun here can’t handle his fire whiskey for shit, and we were all just having a little start of the year party in the Room of Requirement. So me and my friend here,” he motioned vaguely to the cowering boy behind him- who you now noticed looked like he had just entered his fourth year- “decided to be so kind as to bring him back.”

You said nothing for a moment; simply simmering in your hatred for him until he spoke again.

“By the way, what are you even doing up so late? You’re not a prefect...so shouldn’t you be up in bed like the rest of your little friends? What’s so secretive that you have to be up in the middle of the night for it? Are you doing something...evil?” He leaned forward, closing the gap between the two of you and bringing his mouth level with your ear. You cringed at the closeness, clenching your hands into fists until the crescents of your nails indented your skin. His voice had lowered like he was telling a secret, as if Gryffindors even had the capacity for maintaining privacy. “Are you being naughty?”

You huffed indignantly, finally finding the strength to shove his shoulder away harshly. The skin of your cheeks was certainly flamed, but you hoped he would chalk it up to annoyance and not the intoxicating scent of his woody cologne.

“If you must know, I was up studying Transfiguration. I was trying to enjoy some piece and quiet until you came busting in.”

Beomgyu stepped around you and made his way for the table you’d previously been sitting at. To your delight he refrained from touching anything, but he stared at the set up for so excruciatingly long that the mystery boy awkwardly slipped out of the dungeon without a word.

“We start classes in about 5 hours,” he suddenly remarked. His voice made you jump a bit, since you’d become used to the regained quiet. “Why the hell are you already studying? And a subject we’ve all already taken? Any other Transfiguration courses would just be electives, and with how much you care for your class standing I would have assumed you’d be learning ahead on Potions.”

“Well first of all, I’m not exactly studying. I’m just reading. I bought the book myself because I-” you stopped and heaved a sigh at the scrunch of his eyebrows. He clearly wasn’t understanding the concept of reading just for the fun of it. “I’m not studying for Potions because I despite it. Plus, how much is there to study? The book literally spells out every ingredient and procedure. There’s no thinking to be done, and hardly any magic.” Beomgyu’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline comically.

“Hardly any magic? My god, maybe I was right to peg you as the pessimistic type. Must be hard to feel anything akin to hope down here in your-” he glanced around your common room again, eyes catching on the darkened green and black decorations, the window offering a view of the sparkling Black Lake shrouded with pine trees. “In your dungeon.”

His use of the word bothered you greatly. Even though you knew it was geographically true and had even used it yourself; something about him coming in unannounced and uninvited to insult your home inspired fresh anger in your stomach.

“Get out,” you spat, ignoring the way a half-dozed Yeonjun jumped at your voice. With all your might you pushed at Beomgyu’s broad shoulders, willing him out of your sight for at least a few more hours.

“Oof, must have hit a nerve there, huh?” He continued to speak casually as you pushed him, walking backwards up the steps with an annoyingly perfect accuracy. Once he was finally stood in the threshold of the heavy door you heaved a sigh of relief as you swing it closed.

“Bye bye! Don’t ever fucking come back!”

——

You only managed about two hours of sleep after the Beomgyu drama, but luckily for you the three other sixth year girls you were rooming with had been smart enough to buy and stash away some caffeine potions. They had none of the enjoyable taste of coffee but three times the effect, and soon you felt back in top shape to head to class.

Pushing through the masses of clambering students with a practice eased, you caught up to the familiar frame of Georgiana, one of your oldest friends. She was a Ravenclaw, but you’d ridden together on your very first trip on the Hogwarts Express and stayed close friends since then. She greeted you easily, giving you an award winning smile as she pulled you by the arm of the robes to sit on one of the surprisingly empty stone benches lining the halls.

“Let me see your schedule!” She had to yell just to be heard over the mumbling of the crowd, but you heard her well enough to produce a folded piece of parchment that you carried despite having memorized it. Georgiana’s eyes flitted over it carefully, comparing it to her own schedule which laid open on her lap.

“We’ve got...Herbology 3,” she ran her finger down the parchments a few more inches, “Transfiguration of Aquatics...and NEWT prep together!” You groaned loudly, a feeling of anxiety weighing down your bones as you rubbed your fingertips into your temples.

“What’s up with you? Over me already?” She giggled, leaning back against the wall and handing you back your schedule.

“No, it’s just...if you’re the second class for Herb 3, Aquatics and NEWT prep, that means I have to pray that the second house in Potions isn’t Gryffindor.” You leaned back against the cool wall next to her, pouting in self pity until you saw the grim look on her face.

“What?” You sat up straight again as if a fire had been lit under your ass. Georgiana looked as if she was holding in a laugh and a grimace at the same time while you begged her to give up whatever information she was holding back from you. Her hand hovered over her mouth in an attempt to hide the wavering smirk running across her lips.

“Okay, don’t freak out.” She began, placing a hand on your knee.

“Well now I’m definitely going to since you lead with don’t freak out! Should I freak out? What about?”

“I already compared schedules with Soobin,” she said gently.

“Okay, and?” You knew of the sweet Hufflepuff, had sat next to him in a few classes and seen him hanging out with Yeonjun on occasion, but still had no idea why she was bringing him up now.

“And him and I have Potions together.” In the split second it took for the words to process you saw her flinch, clutching at the fabric of her robes over her chest in anticipation for your angry outburst.

“Of course! Of course I have to get stuck with them for Potions class, out of all the other houses. Merlin really has it out for lately you know, I didn’t sleep very much last night, had to pay Melinda 10 galleons for one of her caffeine potions-“

“I can tell,” Georgiana supplied. You grimaced at her and immediately shut your mouth, sensing your rapid talking was quickly becoming over the top.

“Georgie, if I have Potions with him-“ you didn’t even have to specify who you were speaking of before she was rolling her green eyes into her head.

“If you have Potions with Beomgyu, you just need to ignore him. He loves to push your buttons, Y/N. When will you realize that? And you push his back and you both get a good cat-and-mouse feeling that every teenager wants. Maybe if you stop entertaining it, he’ll take it easy on you. Need I remind you of the time you were actually friends with him? Didn’t swear he was the spawn of Satan after every conversation? I even remember in second year when you had a crush on him and made me-“

“Okay!” You replied curtly, gathering your books and parchment back into your arms. “I’m going now! Class starts in,” you pulled back your robe sleeve to look at a watch that clearly was not there, “10 minutes, and I like to be early!” Easily, you slipped into the throngs of students, leaving Georgiana behind with a sly grin on her face.

——

You arrived to the Potions room before any other student, forcing you to idle awkwardly in the small space between the door and the first brewing station. A few of the cauldrons bubbled idly, breaking up the silence of the room with the low hum of white noise. The arched ceilings only amplified the absence of noise- even the never ending buzz of students passing through the hallways was somehow muffled to silence inside the walls.

“Ah!” The professor bellowed, waving at you from the opposite end of the room where he had been straightening out some piles of parchment that you could only assume were homework papers. “Hello there, you must be quite eager to start the day!” You could feel the skin of the back of your neck heating up as the rotund man approached you gleefully.

“Oh, um, yes sir. You could say that...” you mumbled, clutching your stack of books to your chest protectively. The man smiled at you kindly but you could still feel the heavy weight of awkwardness seeping into your bones. He opened his mouth again- making another attempt at small talk to which you cringed. As much as you respected the professor on the basis of his knowledge, your ability for any small talk, especially Potions related, was extremely lacking.

“You must’ve done quite well on your OWLS to be here, yes? Only those with the highest scores can be registered. The class can be quite challenging, but if you’ve got your affairs in order I reckon you’ll fine.” He paused, likely sensing the blankness behind your stare as you nodded politely. “Ah, all things you already know I’m sure. Are you excited to get started with the class?”

You frowned, holding back your natural instinct for brutal honesty. How on earth could you let this gentle old man down gently?

“Of course she’s excited! Aren’t we all?” Beomgyu was in the room now, apparently, approaching you from behind and slinging an arm around your shoulders. The loose fabric of his sleeve collided with the side of your face, blinding you for a second. You stumbled on your feet from the jostle, trying to shrug away from the warmth and overwhelming scent of his cologne. Beomgyu never was aware of his own strength as he held you steadily against his side as if he was trying to fuse your bodies together.

“Oh my! So nice to see such great friends between different houses! Back in my day, as I’m sure you know, there was so much hatred between Gryffindors and Slytherins...never would have seen a pair of friends like the two of you!” The professor seemed genuinely delighted, oblivious to the way you tried to wiggle out of Beomgyu’s hold. You offered the professor a plastic smile as more students filed in. As soon as the portly man was otherwise occupied, you stomped the heel of your sneaker into Beomgyu’s foot with all the might you could gather.

“Merlin, ouch!” He recoiled immediately, withdrawing his arm from around your frame to clutch at the foot you’d hopefully bruised. “I’ve got Quidditch practice after lunch today! How dare you!”

“Guess it’s a good thing you don’t need your feet for Quidditch, Choi. Serves you right for violating my personal space. Next time it’ll be worse than your fucking toes.” You hissed the words lowly, just enough that he would be able to hear them but without alerting your nearby classmates.

“You two, there!” The professor suddenly exclaimed, making you jump out of your stupor to see he was pointed an aged finger at you and Beomgyu. “Since you were first in and seem to get along, I’ll have you be partners on Station 1.” A few confused whispers passed through the classmates behind you and your face fell at the implication. Potions partners with Beomgyu? For the whole year?

He seemed similarly stalled, not moving a single inch away from the front of the room until the professor cleared his throat pointedly.

“Right, sir, of course,” Beomgyu nodded, rushing over to the furthest of the high-top tables; unsuccessfully trying to hide the pain of his newfound limp. With a satisfied feeling in your chest you followed closely behind, finally unloading the weight of the books in your arms onto the table.

——

“How much worse could it get?” You groaned, laying your head in your arms at the dining table.

“Well, you could be sick, or failing a class, or not have any friends, or have lost your books. Hell, let’s not forget what it must have been like to go to school here at the same time as Harry Potter. I mean, no final exams for a few years, but at what cost? Grandpa Ron always tells me about-”

“Oh, good Merlin, Georgie, that’s not what I meant.” You picked your head up from the table and scanned the bustling hall. A large plate of sandwiches laid in front of you but your appetite was diminished in the presence of your stress. “I mean, how fucked is it that I have to spend every first period for the rest of the year brewing Potions alongside Choi? It’s bad enough that I hate Potions already, and now I’ll have to deal with his stupid, righteous, Slytherin-slandering ass!” You slammed your hand into the wooden table, shaking the plates and glasses near you under the force.

“Careful there,” Georgiana scolded around a mouthful of bread. “Just keep your head down, don’t react to him like you always do,” she paused to gulp down a sip of pumpkin juice, “he’ll give up eventually.” You heaved a heavy sigh, propping your chin onto the palm of your hand and scanning the Great Hall. Masses of students bustled around, sharing meals and laughing or gathering over homework problems. You weren’t quite sure who or what you were looking for, but all you found was a rowdy group of forth year boys sitting atop one of the tables, casting small hexes at one another and their lunches. You rolled your eyes at their antics before resigning to picking at the few fries on your plate.

“And if he doesn’t?” You mumbled, casting a pointed glare at a seemingly distracted Georgiana. It took her a second to shift her gaze back to your face, clearing her throat as she narrowed her eyes towards you.

“Sorry?” She asked, pulling a section of crust off of the third sandwich she’d picked up off of the platter.

“If he doesn’t give up? What am I supposed to do then?” The thought of living out the next two school years with Choi Beomgyu as a constant annoyance settled a pit of rage in your stomach. Georgiana was quiet for a moment, flicking a few locks of curled, fiery hair over her shoulder.

“Then you get back at him.” She shrugged. “You know you get a discount at the joke shop. Just go down there and pick up some puking pastilles or something.” She looked up again suddenly, eyes shimmering and focused intently on something behind you. Out of curiosity you turned on the spot, wondering if there was something of interest outside of the window, only to be met with the sight of Soobin standing mere feet away, hand stalled mid-wave. It didn’t take a genius to notice that the Hufflepuff was staring intently at your best friend, and she was happily returning the sentiment with a goofy grin on her face. You whipped back around to face her, leaning across the table as if the action would provide any secrecy with him so close.

“Are you and Soobin...” you wiggled your eyebrows at her and she swatted at your shoulder. Her cheeks blushed rosy as she whispered back, “He asked me if I’d want to hang out when we go to Hogsmeade this weekend.” Her voice shook as she spoke but you frowned instantly. Of course you were happy that he had finally manned up and the two of them were on the way to something akin to a date, but...

“First weekend Hogsmeade is our tradition!” You shouted, abandoning any secrecy you might have thought you’d maintained from Soobin.

“Y/N, please!” Georgiana hissed, glancing up at Soobin with an apologetic smile. “Just once. You can still come along, maybe you can bring someone too?” She offered, trying to placate your irritation. Her eyes continued sliding between you and Soobin as she waited for your response. You sank back onto the bench quietly, arms crossed over your chest.

“Fine.” You sighed. “I guess I can try to think of someone.” Georgiana’s face lit up as she stood from her seat and gathered her books back under her arm. She rounded the end of the table quickly, meeting up with Soobin just behind you. “Don’t think I’m not still irritated, Weasley!” You yelled after her even though she had turned her back to you. She stalled in her lockstep next to Soobin just long enough to turn her head and throw you a middle finger.

——

The day of your Hogsmeade visit came quicker than you anticipated, and of course you’d failed to find someone to fill the empty spot that would prevent you from third wheeling. Everyone you asked had either been otherwise busy, sick, or already going into Hogsmeade with other friends.

Georgiana, being the wonderful friend she was, made sure that you hadn’t felt left out on the walk into the village. Soobin was surprisingly good at keeping conversation despite his shy appearance, and the three of you had managed to share lunch and a few Butterbeers at The Three Broomsticks before Georgiana began giving you pointed glances. It took you an embarrassingly long time to recognize what her hand signals and mouthed words were conveying, but once you did you had excused yourself to wander the shops alone in a bid to give the lovebirds some privacy.

The weather was surprisingly pleasant, and as such the streets were lined with witches and wizards of all ages. Large throngs of students and families passed you by, and you couldn’t help but feel a bit like a fish swimming upstream as everyone pushed by. When you’d first stepped out you felt odd walking the cobbled street alone, considering you’d never made a solo trip to Hogsmeade for as long as you’d lived. Something about it was quite relaxing, though, as you realized you could enter any store and stay for any amount of time.

Once you’d wrestled your way through another group of oncoming students, you spotted an endearing baby blue storefront with deserts on display in the window. Many of them appeared to be muggle creations, and your mouth watered as you caught sight of a tray of fudgy brownies with a thick layer of chocolate icing. Your eyes had always been bigger than your stomach; so despite the fact that you’d just had lunch you find yourself stepping into the sweet smelling shop. An expansion charm helped stretch the store far beyond its dainty storefront, and you were met with the sight of even more display cases and tiered plates full of sweets.

A few other wizards mulled around the store, debating which treats to pick up and pack into the little green pastry boxes which were stacked at the entrance in a never ending supply. You balanced one of your own between your hands as you gathered up treats, sure to grab three of the very brownies that had brought you in to begin with. You packed in a few cookies that you found on a shelf near the back of the store and began to weigh your options between purchasing what appeared to be a type of muggle cake with specs of color floating about the white batter or a more familiar looking pumpkin pastry dusted with powdered sugar. You contemplated the two deserts for an amount of time that would have been embarrassing if you were in the presence of company.

“Wrackspurts on the brain?” A rush of hot breath inches away from the shell of your ear had you reeling, clutching your box of precious deserts to your chest. Of course you’d immediately identified the voice; you were just hoping that you were wrong as you shot daggers into the boy who’d spooked you. Beomgyu looked beyond pleased with himself: a hand cocked on his hip, fake glasses perched at the very end of his nose to perfectly top off the outfit he’d chosen. His robes hung open, one shoulder almost devoid of the fabric as it drooped onto his back. The maroon turtleneck he wore struck a perfect contrast with the golden undertones of his skin and matched impressively well to the emblem on his robes. He had tucked the turtleneck into the waistband of a pair of light wash jeans that made it hard not to marvel at the shape of his waist. The scent of his cologne was faint, overpowered by the sweetness of the shop, but you were picking up overwhelming scents of-

“Hello? Earth to Y/N?” He scrunched his nose as he studied you, waving gingerly like you would have at a child.

“Oh! Uh, I’m here, I’m here. What the hell do you want anyway?” You turned your attention back to the two pastries you’d been considering before his sneak attack in an attempt to keep yourself from looking back at his form.

“What’re you doing here alone? Out of friends? Did ya bore them all to death?” He had rounded to the opposite side of the table, forcing you to look at him straight on.

“I walked into Hogsmeade with Georgiana and Soobin, if you must know. They wanted some time alone so here I am.” You glanced up again to see him leaning casually against the table with one arm bracing his weight.

“I just have to point out that you’re also alone, Beomgyu. So I’m not quite sure why so keen on bashing me.” Your eyes skate over the deserts one final time before you decisively package up a slice of the muggle cake. The urge to celebrate the small victory was squashed by Beomgyu’s scoff.

“I’m here alone because I chose to be, not because my best friend is on a date and didn’t want a chaperone. Don’t you find that a little embarrassing?”

To be honest, you hadn’t considered it that way. You knew that finding a person to keep you from third wheeling had been your responsibility. But maybe he had a point. Although he was a constant nagging force, Beomgyu was insightful and intelligent. He’d helped you in class many times back when you were friends. Nervously, you nibbled at your bottom lip and considered his words carefully. Did Georgiana find your presence today embarrassing? She was surely too nice to tell you so, and there was no denying the tension in her face while she waited for you to leave The Three Broomsticks earlier. Your normally stoic face must have betrayed you, conveying that you were starting to feel hurt at the words that suddenly seemed to make so much sense.

“I was joking,” Beomgyu spoke up suddenly, rounding the table to once again be next to you. “Don’t take everything I say so seriously, Y/N. I’m beginning to worry for your sense of humor.” He picked up a couple of cookies with careful dexterity and settled them into the palm of his hand.

“Of course,” you concluded bitterly, taking a step back in a bid to get to the counter and buy your treats. “Must be my broken sense of humor and not just the fact that you’re an ass.” His face twisted unpleasantly as you stepped further away. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but you were already pivoting on the balls of your feet to make your way toward the front of the shop.

——

The evidence of the first frost of the season crunched underneath your feet as you hurried to class. As someone who prided themselves on showing up on time for classes every day, you were particularly embarrassed to have woken up with just twenty minutes to spare before the beginning of potions. There was no excuse, either. You had simply stayed up too late studying for the NEWT practice exam and forgot to set your alarm before lying down.

To make matters worse you’d greatly underdressed yourself, underestimating the absolute chill of the morning when you had peeled out from the window. Only now, as you found yourself feet away from the classroom did you feel the icy temperature begin to bite into your exposed skin. Your cheeks were numb with cold, and your hands shook as you pushed them under your arms for some amount of warmth. Luckily the classroom was warmer when you finally got to it. Guiltily, you grinned at your professor as he notably marked your attendance onto the scroll of parchment.

“Rough night?” Beomgyu asked under his breath as the professor launched into the lesson for the day. You kept your back turned to the boy in favor of writing down the list of ingredients that was being provided to you. A firm poke in the middle of your back had you turning on your stool, already silently fuming as you came face to face with Beomgyu.

“What?” You mouthed, trying your best not to alert your professor that neither of you were paying attention to him.

“You look awful,” he mouthed back, pulling the most exaggerated gagging expression you’d ever seen in your life. Your fingers twitched, resisting the urge to grab him by his necktie and slap him across his annoyingly perfect face. Instead you threw up your middle finger boldly, practicing a muggle tradition that wizards had become quite fond of. Beomgyu feigned shock, laying a hand over his heart and pretending to faint right there at his stool.

“-so you’ll be using this combination of potions for the group project, due in one weeks time.” Your professor concluded. Wide eyed, you spun back around on your stool only to see the words previously written on the board disappear with a flick of his wand. A group project? Potions, plural? You’d only taken notes on one mixture, and you were sure that Beomgyu hadn’t taken any notes at all. Although maybe the group project wasn’t among your table mate? Your heart fluttered as you prayed for that to be the reality, scanning your classmates to see if anyone got up to switch seats or combine tables.

Not a single soul moved.

“Guess it’s just us.” Beomgyu drawled from behind you.

“Did you take any notes?” You asked, fear running through your veins. If both of you were clueless, you’d have to ask the professor to explain everything to you again, which would only implicate the two of you for not paying attention to begin with.

Beomgyu shook his head and shrugged much too casually for a student who was in the dark about an entire project.

“I’ll just ask someone. Hey, Art-”

“No!” You scrambled for a rolled piece of parchment to hit him on the arm with before he could finish his shout across the classroom. “Please, do not scream across the room that we don’t know what we’re doing.” Your cheeks were flaming, anxiety and exhaustion building to a dangerous level in your bloodstream.

“Awe, are you ashamed to admit you were too busy talking to me to pay attention?” Beomgyu cooed, cradling his chin in his palms.

“No. I’m embarrassed that we’re the only ones not starting the work,” you glanced pointedly to all of the other tables where your classmates were hard at work on...something. Every table housed a slowly bubbling cauldron producing a steady stream of light grey smoke. The cauldron resting on the table between the two of you was alarmingly quiet, your stores of provided potion ingredients remaining untouched.

“Alright, Y/N. How about right now we work on the one you wrote down,” he points a finger at the parchment containing the list of notes you managed to take, “and I’ll talk to someone about the rest. Since you’re too proud to ask for help.” Without waiting for you to process the words he gripped the parchment between his fingers and pulled it toward the middle of the table. He mumbled a simple aguamenti under his breath and the cauldron filled with the perfect level of water. He then scrutinized the words for just a moment before he began to collect ingredients with a practiced ease, barely even glancing at the labels of the hefty glass containers. You’d never seen him quite as focused in a class as he was at the moment, his nimble fingers uncapping lids and measuring precise amounts of lacewing flies with a delicacy you never would have expected to come from the hands of Gryffindor’s star Beater.

One after the other, ingredients fell into the wrought iron cauldron, changing the color of the mixture from clear to an odd, murky green. You scrunched your nose in distaste but Beomgyu was nodding to himself in satisfaction, his fluffy hair bouncing back off of his forehead.

“Stop staring and start taking notes, Y/N.” His voice was casual but his lips were twisted in a smirk as you scrambled for both an excuse and a fresh roll of parchment.

“I wasn’t,” you defended as you begin to scribble out notes against the parchment, refusing to meet his eyes as the shame of being caught red-handed crawled up the back of your throat and stung behind your eyes. He simply hummed in acknowledgment and tossed in a few leaves of a plant you didn’t have time to identify into the bubbling mixture.

——

Impatiently, you tapped your foot against the stone floor. It echoed a sound that would have been satisfying in its consistency if it weren’t for the annoyance running through your veins. Beomgyu had promised to meet you in the west corner of the library today, at a prompt 7pm, in order to finish synthesizing your plan for the Potions project. You checked the clock on the wall again just in case you had somehow misread the hands only to find them confirming your suspicions. Beomgyu was blowing you off. He had suggested the time and place himself, and yet he couldn’t even have the decency to show up.

Anger blossomed in your chest as you stood to gather the things you’d brought along. Your chair scraped on the floor and attracted the stares of a few other students put you paid them no mind as you swore under your breath.

Of course Beomgyu had stood you up in the face of an important project. He was probably laughing away to his friends in the common room, boasting about how he’d left you sitting in the library like a fool. Once again he had proven himself to be an utterly useless and annoying human being that you wished you had never even met. Your teeth sunk into the supple flesh of your bottom lip so hard that blood pooled on your tongue, the bitter tang snapping you into action. The route to the Gryffindor common room was a familiar one, and the hatred brimming inside of you made your legs move even faster than usual, swearing under your breath as you finally came face to face with the portrait keeping you from entering the room.

“I don’t have time for any password- please just let me in. I’m looking for someone.” Your words came rushed, obviously annoyed as you crossed your arms over your chest.

“Now, you know that isn’t how this works, dear,” the painting asserted, crossing their arms to mimic your own stubborn pose. “I can’t let just anyone into the room. I’ve got,” the portraited stopped dead in its tracks and began counting on its fingers silently. “I’ve got 30 students inside right now, and it’s my job to protect them.” Your fists clenched at your sides over the stubborn portrait, fingers itching to grab your wand and level a badgering curse against the damned painting. It must have read the anger on your face as you fiddled with the fabric of your robes, as it’s booming voice came again;

“Tell me who you’re seeking, and I can tell you if I’ve seen them!” With your fingers still curled around your wand, it took a fair deal of restraint to leave it in your robe pocket. After a deep, steadying breath, you looked back up at the portrait. A beat of silence passed before you slathered on a sweet smile, clearing your throat to quell any remnants of your frustrated growl.

“I’m looking for Choi Beomgyu.”

The portrait took a moment to contemplate your words, squeezing its eyes tightly and tapping its fingers as you assumed it searched the students inside the Gryffindor common room and dorms.

“He’s not here.” It finally concluded, snapping its eyes back open to peer down at you again. Frustration flamed your skin red all the way to your hairline. Hogwarts and it’s grounds were extensive, and searching for him would surely take up your entire night.

“I did happen to see out Quidditch players heading down to the pitch around 5 o’clock, though.” Not needing any further ceremony, you turned on your heels and made your way toward the exit of the castle. The corridors were fairly empty, and the few students still milling around were quick to step out of your way as you hurried through them, robes flowing out behind you. Silently you thanked your lucky stars that no professors had been around to inquire about why you were rushing out of the castle in such a haste.

As soon as you set foot outside, you regretted not stopping by your dorm first to grab your coat and scarf. It had been three days since you woke up to the first frost, and the temperature had only continued to drop into frigid numbers. Even in the limited light provided by the setting sun you could see your breath fogging ahead of you. Cold air curled around your body, seeming to seep underneath your skin with a harsh ferocity. For now you simply tucked your hands deeper into the fabric of your robes, hoping that the heat of them in conjunction with your brisk pace would keep your body warm enough.

The walk to the Quidditch pitch was deceptively far when you traveled alone. Normally you were so distracted by conversation with your friends and the last minute bets between houses that you didn’t have time to mull over how many steps it took you to arrive at the stands; but today you were nothing short of pissed at how far away the compound had been built. Every step you took sent a shock of cold through your feet, your toes completely numb no matter how much you wiggled them inside your sneakers. The trees shuddered with you as you passed them, leaves spiraling to the ground as they finally give in to the pressure of the cold and resign themselves.

Finally you passed through the solid wood of the viewing stands, coming face to face with the expanse of the pitch in front of you. Totally empty. Not a single soul was to be found warming up on the grass or running practice games in the air. Upon listening, you couldn’t even hear any distant chatter that would indicate the team being huddled into the locker room.

“Shit!” A new wave of frustration crashed through your mind. Had you passed them on the way over? It was plausible that they had taken a different route back to the castle and your whole trip had been in vain. Exhausted, you leaned against the wall and listened to the whip of the banners against their metal poles, the clinking of their bindings matching with the steady, loud beat of your pulse. Just as you were about to turn and head back for the castle in your freezing shame, you heard another sound. This one was different, less uniform, almost like a grunt of exhaustion followed by a heavy thud. Your freezing feet moved almost without you to follow the noise. A vicious wind whipped your hair, mussing it up so badly that you had to stop in your tracks to gather it all back into place. You hazarded every step you took, unsure exactly where the source of the noise was coming from other than somewhere behind the stands. On your next step you heard the noise again, much closer this time, and the excitement of being close to solving this mystery had your footsteps speeding up.

Just as you rounded the curving stands, you spotted the culprit, still a little hard to make out due to the distance you had yet to cover, but the colors and shape of a Gryffindor Quidditch uniform were clear. Upon further inspection, it became obvious that the heavy thud you’d been hearing was a the heavy iron Bludger cracking against the magically reinforced bat. There were only two Beaters on the team, and one of them was the very man who’d forced you to walk into the frigid night. You continued your steady approach to the figure, morbidly curious over who it was that was out here pushing themselves to practice alone in the freezing cold.

“Hey!” You yelled as you edged closer, hoping to give whoever it may be a fair warning that you were approaching. Within three feet of the body, there was no mistaking it to be Beomgyu.

“Choi!” You raged, yelling much louder than required for him to hear you. The Bludger was sailing far away from the two of you with a strong hit as you closed the distance almost all the way. “I know you can hear me, asshat.” Beomgyu kept his eyes on the iron ball, effectively ignoring your words. In disbelief you glanced back and forth between his face-seeing the way his eyes narrowed in concentration as the Bludger came closer by the second.

“Is this where you’ve been all night? Playing Quidditch while you were supposed to meet me in the library?” A strong gust of wind knocked the air out of you, shivers running down your spine as you waited for any response from the boy. The Bludger came whistling back toward the two of you, and in the split second you had the foresight to step back he had tensed his shoulders, gripped the end of his bat and took another strong and precise hit against the Bludger, sending it even further away than the last one.

“Lost track of time.” He supplied absentmindedly, turning his head to regard you with lazy eyes.

“What?” You seethed, stepping forward again, placing yourself in front of his frame in hopes of appearing somewhat intimidating. “You lost track of time? Let’s talk about the fact that out project is due in four fucking days, and all we have to show is a single god damn Potion. This was your responsibility,” you pushed your pointed finger into the front of his uniform, the fabric giving way to allow you to feel the firmness of his chest underneath. “I trusted you with the single task of making sure that we could figure out the rest of this project, and you fucked up!” Tears of frustration rimmed your eyes as the worry of failure overwhelmed you. As much as you hated Potions, you’d be damned if Choi Beomgyu became the reason you do poorly.

“Listen, I seriously did just forget,” he pushed at your shoulders forcefully, to which you planted your feet into the ground harder. “Seriously, Y/N, I forgot! Now move!”

“No! You are not,” you grabbed at his forearm and pulled it off of your shoulder, “going to blow me off again! We are going to work on this project right now, even if its the last thing I do!”

“It’s about to be if you don’t fucking move!” He yelled, finally managing to uproot your feet and push you off to the side with so much force that you landed flat on your ass, the cold hardness of the ground knocking the breath out of your lungs. From the ground, you watched helplessly while Beomgyu scrambled to grab his bat in time to hit the whirring Bludger. He was a quick enough thinker to see that there was no way he’d make the move in time, so he simply did the next best thing- turning his back to the ball and ducking his head into his chest, covering the back of his neck with his arms.

With a sickening crack, the Bludger made foul contact with Beomgyu’s back, striking just below his left shoulder blade. The force knocked him forward, his hands barely catching himself as he met the ground harshly. He cried out in pain, the sound bouncing around the stands and piercing your veins. In a hurry, you crawled toward his heaving body and urged him to sit up with the guidance of your hands.

“Are you okay?” The words rushed out of you in a hurry, panic crawling up the back of your throat at the shine of tears streaming down his reddened cheeks.

“Wh-what the hell do you think?” He groaned, body shaking as he struggled to even take a breath.

“Okay, right. Dumb question. Let’s get you to the infirmary, yeah?” His legs shook as he got them under him, something akin to a baby deer taking its first few steps. Instinctively you shot out an arm to steady him, looping your arm behind his back as effectively as you could given the height difference and placement of his injury.

“Merlin, I think I broke my shoulder blade,” he groaned, stumbling across the uneven ground with trepidation.

“You didn’t, I watched. It actually hit right below your shoulder blade, so if anything it’s just bruised, and you probably won’t even need a bone-healing spell, so recovery should be little more than some Devil’s Claw for the pain and-”

“Did someone cast a babbling curse on you? Merlin’s beard. It’s bad enough that you got me hit to begin with, and now I have to listen to you run your mouth!’ His voice was still pinched with pain, an octave lower than normal as he gritted his teeth. The two of you finally reached the threshold of the castle, encapsulated by the warmth of the torches littered all inside.

“I’m trying to help! Did you ever consider the fact that if you had showed up to our scheduled meeting time, you could have avoided being hit. I could have avoided freezing all of my extremities off, and I wouldn’t have to be helping your ass to the infirmary.”

The noise of your bickering outside of the infirmary wing attracted the nurse to the hallway, who furrowed her eyebrow in silent question over the two of you.

“He got hit by a Bludger, ma’am,” you supply as soon as you see her. Her eyes widen instantly as she rushed forward, helping you guide Beomgyu into an empty cot. She shooed you aside as she fretted over him, asking questions about the incident in a low, steady tone before nodding seriously. Without any kind of warning, Beomgyu was pulling the fabric of his uniform over his head, leaving his top half bared to you. Your cheeks burned, and you cleared your throat nervously. The nurse was too busy prodding at the blossoming bruise to have heard your stutter, but Beomgyu was nothing if not aware.

His dark eyes found your form standing just a few paces away, staring unabashedly at the faint hint of his abs that had become visible.

“Somethin’ you like?” He drawled playfully, snapping you out of your reverie.

“Merlin, no.” You sneered, hoping to cover the thickness of your tone as you swallowed hard. “Just trying to decide if I should tell the Quidditch team to get their backup trained for the game tomorrow night.” Beomgyu’s face fell at the implication of your words and a sting of regret struck your heart.

“There will be no need for a backup, dear,” the nurse cooed, shuffling her feet as she gathered up a few healing supplies. She offered a bottle of innocent looking clear liquid to Beomgyu and he drank it instantly, grimacing at what you assumed to be a foul taste. “Now, dear, if you don’t fancy seeing your boyfriend in more pain as I heal him-”

“Please. He is not my boyfriend. I just helped him get here. I’ll be going now, anyway. See you tomorrow?” You asked pointedly, hoping he would understand your incessant need to finish the Potions project. He nodded slightly, and you scanned Beomgyu’s form one more time before excusing yourself to the nurse and scurrying back to your dorm.

——

“I better hear a thank you.” Beomgyu asserted as soon as he slumped in the seat across from you. He had been so quiet in his approach to the table that you hadn’t heard him until now, rocketing your gaze up towards him from the pages of your Transfiguration book.

“Beomgyu,” you breathed, relieved to see that he had been healed and able to return to classes just the morning after the Bludger hit. You schooled your features into cool indifference as soon as you saw his mouth twitch up at the sound of his name. “For what am I thanking you? Withholding information about the project?”

“No,” he shook his head, springing a few carefully parted hairs loose from their spot. “For- number one-” he paused dramatically, drumming his bony fingers against the edge of the high-topped table, “providing you all the information for finishing this project.” Out of seemingly nowhere he produced a thick roll of parchment that unrolled to reveal a step by step explanation. Pages of carefully written instructions went into great detail on every step of the potions that needed to be made. A sense of relief and happiness washed through you, enough to make your hands curl into excited fists as you beamed.

“Turns out our Seeker is good at more than catching a Snitch. She got the highest marks in this class last year, and agreed to share the notes with me.”

“Thank you, Beomgyu. Seriously. I was beginning to worry.”

“I know, I know. It feels good to be your savior, Y/N. Oh, which reminds me of reason number two; the fact that I spared you a Bludger hit last night.”

“I thought we’d already covered this. Most of that encounter was your fault. Plus, your little shove left me with a bruise of my own on my ass.” Pouting, you shifted your weight in an attempt to alleviate the pain against said bruise.

“Just admit it, Y/N,” he leaned forward, his face mere inches from your own so as not to be heard by anyone around. “You’re indebted to me. Two times over.” He was cocky, but you had to admit he had a point. As much grief as he had caused you, he had saved you from both a failing grade and an injury in just under 24 hours.

“You’ve got a point.” Beomgyu shrunk back into his seat, cocking his head to the side as if he hadn’t heard you correctly. It seemed like he was waiting for a witty remark or some kind of argument to his words, but you kept a sure, steady gaze on him instead. Either your eyes were playing tricks on you or there was a slowly building flush of red blooming from under the collar of his cable-knit sweater onto his cheeks. Against your will, your mind reproduced the image of his bared chest from last night.

“What do I owe you?” The question rolled off of your tongue like butter as you took the chance to lean forward to him, balancing carefully on your stool with your elbows planted onto the table.

“I-I just,” Beomgyu frowned at his stutter, apparently upset by his own lack of confidence. His mouth opened and closed again in quick succession and you grinned wider. Another teasing lilt was right at the tip of your tongue, but the booming voice of your professor cracked the tension wide open and had you sitting back on your stool.

——

Two days later, you stand behind your stool in Potions class, wringing your hands together nervously. Your portly professor had spent all morning swirling around the class, leaning over the cauldrons and vials present at every table. He muttered a few things to every pair of students, nodding along as they explained their approach to him. It seemed as if he were grading on the spot, since you caught a glimpse of a quill gliding over a small strip of parchment.

Finally the elder approached your table, bushy eyebrows pinched into one another as he had already begun to scrutinize the potions laid out for him. He said nothing as he approached, quietly appraising your work. One by one, he picked up the vials one by one, peering through the clear bottom and giving them an experimental swirl. He hummed happily to himself and your heart soared. Across the table you noticed Beomgyu looking equally pleased. The professor set down the vials one by one before leveling his gaze onto you.

“How do you think you did?” He questioned, producing the same thin strip of parchment you’d seen him use at other tables. Palms sweating, you stole a glance at Beomgyu who gave you an encouraging wave of his hand.

“I think we did quite well, professor. It took us a bit to get the whole project together, but I feel confident in our end results here.” Nervously, your eyes skated down to his quill, tapping against the parchment rhythmically.

“Well, I think you did quite well, the two of you. These potions are near perfect. Couldn’t make them any better myself.” It felt as if the air had been sucked from your lungs, shocking you beyond belief. Never once in your life did you think you’d be receiving such high marks in Potions- especially with Beomgyu as your partner. Your professor marked a delicate “A+” on the small strip of parchment.

Beomgyu threw a triumphant fist in the air, wiggling in his spot with pure excitement. Your professor let out a belly laugh, spinning around to address the entire class.

“I didn’t want to advertise this since I wanted you all to put in your best, pure efforts to the project. But, now that I’ve reviewed everyone’s work and determined the best,” you swapped a look of confusion with Beomgyu, both assuming that he was referring to you. “I am offering an award to our friends at Station 1!” He motioned to the two of you wildly, robes flailing as you ushered to the front of the room. Your peers glared at the two of you, but you were too far onto cloud nine to care.

“Good thing I got those notes, huh?” Beomgyu muttered to you. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head.

“Good thing I spent all last night making sure we actually had the potions to present.” Keeping your voice low and level to keep him from sensing just how grateful you were for his efforts. The class murmured lowly, surely trading snide remarks about the two of you until the professor cleared his throat pointedly.

From the pocket of his robes, the professor pulled out two small, clear vials. One was pressed into each of your palms, and you stared up at him with confusion. Maybe this was a sign you should have paid more attention to the types of potions around you.

“Luck potions, please use them carefully” he supplied helpfully, swirling back around to face the entire class. “Now, who’s willing to take a photo of me and our winners?” The professor bellowed, producing an old film camera from somewhere and brandishing until someone shuffled off of their stool.

——

Fresh, fluffy snow floated down in gentle waves outside the window. It was the thick of winter now, and despite your best efforts to bundle up you were still huddling into yourself for warmth as students shuffled into Potions around you. Everyone seemed especially lethargic, yearning for the break from classes that Christmas promised. You laid your head onto your folded arms, feeling just as exhausted as the atmosphere suggested.

Sleep had been evading you lately, annoyingly deceptive as you would lay down in bed tired only to be kept awake by your racing mind for several hours. Somehow settling into your arms in this classroom was the most content you’d felt in days. And then you felt a firm push at the back of your head. There was no mistaking who the perpetrator was, especially as you heard the scrape of a stool directly across from you.

“Good morning to you too, Beomgyu.” He was perched perfectly on his stool, eyes wide and bright. For as long as you’d known him, he had thrived in the cold and the snow. “You are obnoxiously cheerful. God damn Gryffindors.”

“Not my fault you’re such a grouch. But I guess it is true that snakes don’t like the cold.”

“Do you ever let up? Or do you get pleasure out of ruining my mood every single morning?”

A grin cracked his lips as a short laugh bubbled through. “Thinking about my pleasure, are you? Concerned I’m not getting enough? I can assure you that-”

“Okay, gross. Stop. Enough. You know that isn’t what I meant.” Quite honestly, you had no time to endure his usual teasing so you simply turned your body away from him, idly watching the professor gather his things at the desk.

“Right, let’s get going! We need all the time we can manage today!” He seemed more jubilant than usual as he centered his own cauldron onto the middle of his desk. “Today we’ll be making love potions. Amortentia, you may know. If you’ll open to page 104, you can find the procedure. It is important to note that this potion cannot make anyone truly fall in love, but it does create a strong attraction to whomever you make with it in mind. Of course, the full effect doesn’t apply unless it is consumed. Today we will simply be brewing it for practice. If done correctly, the potion will emulate-”

“The scent of what you find most attractive,” you muttered absent mindedly, reading directly off of the page you had open in your lap.

“Exactly, miss Y/N. Your potion today will smell like what you find most appealing.” He nodded proudly. A feeling of anxiety rose in your chest as he rattled on. No matter how hard you tried you couldn’t think of the type of scents that would come from the potion. You were quite fond of some scents in candle form, but you wouldn’t classify them as...attractive. Even more worrying was the idea that no matter how hard you tried, you would have to reveal this concoction in front of Beomgyu, who took every chance presented to torment you. Your professor clapped his hands together, marking the beginning of your working period.

The instructions were simple enough, so you took extra care to be sure that the measurements were as perfect as you could get them. The room was shrouded in a hushed silence that indicated everyone was working hard on this. After all, this was the most exciting potion that’d been offered to you all year.

“Can’t wait to see which poor dude you have a crush on,” Beomgyu chuckled as he stirred his pot exactly three times counter-clockwise.

“Could say the same for you! I seriously petty whichever girl you’ve been fancying. Imagine being at the receiving end of your...ick. You’d better tell me who it is so I can send them a warning.” You stirred your pot the same way he had, watching the mixture turn to a stereotypical bright pink. The instructions lead you to allow the mixture to culminate for exactly two minutes before any results could be sought.

The students who happened to work faster than you were already taking a sniff at their potions and recording the scents on their parchment, some pairs gossiping amongst one another about what they smelled. A clank of metal had you whipping your head upwards, locking eyes with Beomgyu as adjusted his small cauldron to bend over his potion. Since it wasn’t your own, there was no scent for you to distinguish, but you watched the way his eyes widened in shock for a second.

Unfortunately you had no time to process his expressions before you had to examine the contents of your own cauldron. Before you could even take a deliberate sniff, your senses were rushed with a mix of sweetened musk, a wood that seemed somewhere between cedar and mahogany, and an addicting citrusy undertone that you eventually recognized as bergamot. You placed it immediately.

“Merlin, Beomgyu. Could you refrain from spraying your cologne right now? Why are you even carrying it with you in the middle of-” The words died in your throat as you realized how incriminating your words had become, seeing as Beomgyu had nothing but his quill in his hands. A feeling of sickness rose in the back of your throat as he let out a hearty laugh.

“My cologne, huh? I actually didn’t even have time to put any on today,” he peered over at your parchment, his height allowing him to easily read the fragrance notes you had scribbled before complaining. “But those are the exact notes of what I wear.”

Your cheeks flamed, the heat radiating so fully through your system that you felt yourself begin to sweat despite how cold you’d been before. There was no worse fate than this, you decided. Amortentia had betrayed you, putting you under the mercy of Beomgyu’s knowing stare. Fuck, did he really have to find out now that the smell of his cologne secretly drove you crazy? That as much as you hated the way he teased and antagonized you, somewhere deep down you’d never quite lost the crush you developed in second year?

“I was beginning to think you might’ve had a crush on me, Y/N. Isn’t that so sweet! The stony little Slytherin finally realizing that she’s attracted to me...this is quite the revelation!” Beomgyu lamented, obviously overjoyed at the new ammo he could load into his teasing.

As much as you searched, you could find no words to defend yourself, as the proof was truly in the potion. A bit defeated, you sunk back into your stool, content to bury your face into your hands until your next class began; but at your new level you could see Beomgyu’s own piece of parchment scrawled with what he had smelled. Reading them upside down was a bit of a challenge, but he was too busy complimenting himself to recognize your analytical stare. Written in a neat list were the scents: sage, some type of berry (juniper?), eucalyptus, something woody (cedar?).

Your heart stuttered, a bitter laugh threatening to spill out and give yourself away. Skillfully you held it back, cursing to any god or deity who might be listening. The notes matched up exactly with the perfume you wore every single day.

——

“You asked him why he sprayed his cologne?” Georgiana gaped at you across the table in the Great Hall. The two of you had joined up for lunch just hours after your Potions class disaster.

“Yes, but that’s not all! Just before I melted into a puddle of my own dispair, I saw his list, and I swear to Merlin it’s the exact notes of my perfume! Look,” you produced the travel-sized bottle from your pocket, flipping it to the back label and listing off the exact ingedients.

“Wow,” Georgiana nodded, sinking her teeth into a piece of pizza. “That’s quite remarkable.”

“Why are you not giving me more of a reaction?” You whined, stomping your foot against the floor petulantly. She raised an eyebrow high, taking a few more chews at her food.

“You want me to be honest? Or nice?” She asked, weighing the invisible options on her hands in front of you.

“Honest, I guess.”

“Oh, I was hoping you’d pick that one. You see, my sweet Y/N, the two of you have been dancing around this for years. Even though you renounced him all those years ago, I still talk to him on occasion. Not to mention he’s friends with Soobin, so I’ve been provided with some...insider information. To be honest, Soobin and I have both been waiting for the day the two of you finally stopped bickering and like...made out.”

Your face twisted unpleasantly, shocked at her words. “Insider information?” You croaked, creases forming in your forehead. Georgiana smiled devilishly and you swore you could see red horns rising from her fiery hair.

“Beomgyu talks about you all the time. Apparently, back when he was dating Klara, he would often talk to Soobin about how she never bantered with him like you did. They broke up because he kept comparing her to you. Told Soobin that he’s had a crush on you just as long as you have, but he thought you thoroughly hated him.”

“He has a crush on me?” You sputtered, stomach twisting into knots somewhere between disbelief and excitement. Georgiana full on laughed upon seeing your face, the cackle permeating through the air and turning heads.

“Well, I’m not gonna be the one to bring it up. If he’s got a crush on me, he can bring it up.” You suddenly decide, finally indulging in the pizza that had been waiting for you since you sat down.

“That’s my girl, stubborn to the very end.” Georgiana grinned and offered her hand for a high five that you eagerly returned.

——

The weekend brought you a much needed break from both schoolwork and all things Beomgyu related. Christmas break was fast approaching, and all of your professors had surprisingly laid off on assignments. It seemed as if they were just as tired of grading as you were of doing the work.

Unsurprisingly you found yourself in the library, sitting underneath the twinkling of the fairy lights set up especially for the holidays. Most other students were out socializing, so the room was pleasantly vacant. As a result you were able to settle into one of the plush velvet couches that were usually occupied.

After roaming the aisles you’d found an anthology of wizard poetry that piqued your interest. Settling beteeen the cushions of the couch with a book made you feel the most at home you ever had, cracking open the delicate binding and balancing the book in your stomach as you began to read.

There was no way to tell how long you’d been reading, but by your estimations it was only about 20 minutes before someone was looming above you. Startled, you lifted your gaze over the book to see none other than Beomgyu standing before you. He was decked out in a sage green sweater paired with slightly oversized beige slacks. He had forgone his robes, but his Head Boy pin still shined on the breast of his shirt. Typical.

“Can I help you?” You asked, finally sitting up to regard him.

“I thought you’d be here.” He said simply, shuffling on his feet awkwardly. You blinked.

“That doesn’t answer my question,” you poked, slipping your book shut dramatically. “Did you want to ask me something?” Beomgyu licked at his lips before rubbing his fingers against his forehead.

“Merlin, why do you make everything so hard?” He groaned and seemingly became so exhausted that he collapsed onto the ornate rug under his feet. Seeing that you’d riled him up so much by doing practically nothing sent excitement through your veins. As much as the bickering annoyed you, there was no denying the thrill you felt when giving him back a taste of his medicine.

“What exactly am I making so hard? I don’t even know what you’re here for. To be honest I’m shocked you managed to find me in the library. I figured you would start to burn at the door and have to find a different way in.”

Beomgyu rolled his eyes, a hint of a smirk playing at his pillowy lips.

“Don’t act like you don’t know why I’m here.” He finally began to reveal the award winning smile you’d come to know whenever he teased you. “I know what Georgiana told you.” His voice was low, so quiet that if there had been any other souls in the library you’d have missed it.

Your eyes flew open and he flushed instantly. “You two aren’t exactly quiet at the Great Hall, and I’ve got more than a few friends.” It was your turn to flush red, wondering just how many conversations between you and Georgiana had been overheard by other people.

“So you know that I said...”

“Why do you think I’m here? All it took was me knowing you also...you know,” he picked at the nonexistent loose threads in the carpet. Honestly, you were shocked at how reserved he had become in the face of this confrontation. All traces of his usual confidence seemed to have vanished in the moment.

“I do like you, Beomgyu. I had a massive crush on you in second year, but then we got into that fight and-”

“I wouldn’t call it a fight,” he countered animatedly. “You just never understood my humor. All this time, I was hoping that you would catch the hints.”

“Hints?” It felt like your eyes were going to fall out of your head with how wide you held them. “You call those hints? I’d call those lackluster clues, at best.”

He was quiet for a moment, examining the smirk on your lips carefully. In a moment of impulse you slid off of the couch to sit opposite him on the floor, knees touching. Your heart hammered against your ribs.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, gripping at his thighs nervously. “Didn’t know how else to go about it.”

“That’s okay, me either, obviously.” A rueful laugh escaped your lips, and he returned one just as easily. Up this close, the planes of his face were defined by the delicate light provided from the fairy lights. Shyly you shared glances, neither of you knowing quite how to deal with the charged anticipation in the air.

“Will you...come to the last Quidditch game tomorrow?” He finally spoke, snapping your attention back to him.

“Only if I don’t have to wear one of your ugly jerseies.” Feeling bold, you leaned forward just a few inches, beginning to close the gap between you gradually.

“Fine,” he acquised, leaning forward just the same as you had, his breath fanning hot over your face. “In exchange for not wearing a jersey, how about you...” he tapped at his lips cheekily. A surge of excitement tumbled through you.

“That’s a shit way of asking me to kiss you for the first time, Choi.” Nevertheless you leaned forward further, bumping your nose against his own before you finally pecked him firmly on the lips. You felt ridiculously shy, like you were having your first kiss all over again, but Beomgyu smiled reassuringly, pulling your hands into his own and linking them together. The touch encouraged you both, and your lips collided with more assurance than before.

The faint scent of pumpkin juice lingered on his lips, and you wondered how many bottles he’d drank before finally deciding to come find you. Finally you both sought a new breath, taking a moment to close your eyes and collect yourself. When they fluttered back open you saw Beomgyu staring back at you intently, pupils reflecting the strands of lights strung above you.

He mumbled something so quietly that you couldn’t even hear it at your close distance.

“What was that?” You asked, wondering if you’d caught the end of a charmingly romantic thought.

“I said you’re in need of practice.” He smirked, leaning back of his hands cockily.

“Fuck you, man,” you slapped at his shoulder with a firm clap. He gasped, a hand covering his heart as if he were being sworn into a committee.

“Already? I didn’t take you for such an impure heart!” Another hearty laugh bounced around the library and you ducked your head into your hands, resigning to the fact that you were stuck with him.

1K notes · View notes

theashen-fox · 2 years

Text

Aftermath-RP Starter for @cherribombxs

The Exterminations. If Ash had seen one, he had seen them all. At this point, they didn't even scare him that much anymore; they just left him with a feeling of pity. Pity for the Sinners who, for all of their depravity, were no longer existent. He always questioned the point of it. If they were sent to Hell to be punished, why bother erasing them? The “overpopulation” rationale seemed like too convenient of an excuse. Of course, the following day always gave him a sense of anger. The Turf Wars never sat well with him. One might think such a disaster would bring people together, but instead, it just set them against each other. Though he shouldn’t have been surprised; why should there be solidarity in Hell, after all? And so, here he found himself, rummaging through the rubble, removing old Exterminator spears and breaking the heads off before stowing them away. Of course, he made sure to take other supplies, but that was his main goal.

#cherribombxs #hazbin! au

14 notes · View notes

greatmuldini · 3 years

Photo

The situation is a little more complicated than we had expected.

Colonel Rumford may be in no mood to make a full confession at this stage, but by choosing instead to state an undeniable fact he is also revealing a weakness that even he cannot yet fully articulate. For Cadet Springer, the unexpected complication comes in Rumford’s use of the first person plural: neither a slip of the tongue nor a deliberate misrepresentation, the inclusive we suggests a collective responsibility where in reality no such unity of purpose ever existed.

In the ideal, self-contained world of Rumford’s imagination, Haynes’ untimely departure would have registered as the tragic, if self-inflicted, accident it clearly was. No one would have raised suspicions, no one would have investigated. Any questions of culpability would have been handled under Rumford’s own military jurisdiction. Springer would have been responsible because he would have cleaned the gun. Above all else, the board of trustees would never have heard of Haynes’ plans for radical change - plans that emphatically do not include Lyle C Rumford. You're so used to playing God you figure nothing's going to work without you, quips advertising man William Haynes Jr, who clearly relishes the prospect of firing his old nemesis but will not live to see the day.

The bespoke method of his execution even has an – almost – ironic twist in the element of divine retribution when Haynes is quite literally hoist with his own petard. But Rumford's attention to decorative detail is strictly limited, both by physical and imaginary boundaries designed to protect Rumford’s ideal self-contained world from the depravities of external temptation.

William Haynes Jr epitomizes the depraved inhabitants of a world beyond the pale; his reading of Rumford’s dilemma however is to the point: the decision to shun the outside world and remain aloof in splendid isolation has not only created mental barriers an top of physical ones, it has isolated Rumford from his fellow officers and other members of the Academy. With no one to share his responsibilities or indeed his principles, Rumford’s chosen path is ultimately unsustainable – unless he can find an eleventh-hour ally in whom he can confide and with whom he can share the burdens of his office.

When he tells his reprobate protégé to expect a murder charge, Rumford's intention is not to intimidate Springer but to appeal to his sense of duty and, crucially, his loyalty. Rumford needs Springer to be that good soldier who is willing to endure the hypothetical adversity of a murder trial for the sake of a vision that he hopes is as dear to Springer as it is to him personally: the preservation of his beloved, idealized Academy.

Rumford offers to stand by Springer against the evil intrusions of the outside world (aka Lt Columbo) but he does so in the mistaken belief that he is in control of the situation. and that it will help him to remain in control. While it is true that Springer has no insight into what caused the deadly explosion, he knows it could not have been his doing. The advantage is not immediately obvious to Springer, but it is Rumford’s false sense of superiority that will result in a cascade of unintended consequences.

According to Rumford’s logic, Springer was given a task, and therefore Springer is responsible for its proper execution – a closed circuit that begins and ends with the supreme authority of the commandant to assign duties and discipline infractions. By appealing to the good soldier he still wants to see in Springer, instead of winning the young man’s trust Rumford forces him to choose between being punished for not cleaning the gun and being accused of murder.

Instead of manipulating Springer in his favour, Rumford’s declaration of solidarity has exactly the opposite effect: Springer seeks refuge in the outside world. By being a bad soldier Springer demonstrates his true humanity: as a creature of both worlds, he is contaminated by outside influences and far from perfect, yet he speaks the truth and does so with a clear conscience. Ironically, and fatally for Rumford, it is his own – unattainable - ideal of the good soldier which has been diminished, perhaps most substantially by the one individual who we know is struggling to be that perfect soldier, to create that perfect world for himself and his white roses. Who has already lost the fight even though he has yet to acknowledge the fact.

For FleetstreetPauline

#Patrick McGoohan #Mark Wheeler #Columbo #By Dawn's Early Light #Col Lyle C Rumford #lost his battle against the march of time #forty-seven years ago today #but it is somewhat ironic to note that #the real-life adacemy he headed did not become co-ed until 1996 #the proverbial writing was on the wall however in 1974 #Rumford's existential crisis magically encapsulates the currents and conflicts #of a society in turmoil over its past present and future direction #Rumford's struggle is compelling because we can watch #the disintegration of an institution #alongside the self-evisceration of an uncannily familiar uncompromising character #who fails to live up to his own idea of perfection #and he knows it #Rumford's performance opposite Springer in this scene is #entirely unedited #it is a masterclass in precision and external control #but it too will not save him from the demons within #ohhhh Lyle

25 notes · View notes

theelliottsmiths · 3 years

Note

What are 5 things that make Rammstein special for you?

Hm.

1. The empathy in the lyrics. Almost every song oozes empathy and understanding, somehow. More than any other music I listen to, and I'm a person who mostly listens to music for the lyrics. The more upsetting or evocative the better. The thing about Till as a writer and person, especially when the band is vetting the lyrics, is that he's able to channel so much emotion into everything regardless of whether or not he's experienced it himself. Hyperempathy seems to be his thing, maybe even something he purposefully cultivates now.

Somehow he manages to make a song like Tier, which many bands would end up sexualising or making far too crass or just not taking the right amount of seriously as it needed to be, and work it into something that countless people who have been abused can find genuine comfort in it (and have told him as much). It's strange because it's not that it's not gross or anything because it is very up front and confronting with no sugar coating to make it more palatable, it's more that he shows a much more human aspect, which I find pretty rare. He... Zooms in closer? He puts himself much further into the person.

That's just one example, nowhere near even the best one for that since the first person songs tend to do that even more effectively, but really he manages to treat all kinds of complex situations and emotions perfectly, no matter how gruesome or upsetting. I mean, he wrote a song about child on child abuse, something rarely properly takes about, and despite it being provoking and uncomfortable it's still comforting because it's understanding? He can pretend to be a murderer and say the vilest shit and still somehow have it feel respectful. He doesn't punch down.

I genuinely don't know who could have written Mein Teil, which I absolutely consider to be a love song, so effectively. There is full acknowledgement of the gruesomeness and depravity that somehow doesn't sully the romance, which is very much true to the real story it's based on (Bernd Brandes consenting to being killed and eaten by his lover, Armin Meiwes). It was such a good choice to write from the victims point of view and also? Super interesting that he plays cannibal on stage whilst singing as the "victim". I don't know if it's intentional but Meiwes had this thing about eating someone so they'd be with him forever, so the idea of the victim speaking from inside the cannibal is fascinating.

2. Their solidarity as a group. I fully believe it's because of their personal and cultural upbringings, they just slot together and are willing to work on their relationships; Despite all disagreements and personal problems they chose to stay together and work it out because they love each other and they love their band. They fully believe that they need every member and they're correct. I'm endlessly glad that emigrate exists because otherwise who knows what would have happened?

3. Their dedication to their work. They mercilessly edit the lyrics over and over again until they're perfect. Schneider practices for several hours a day, often in front of a mirror so he can keep an eye in his posture. He's practiced so well that there are other professionals who can't even tell which is his dominant hand, which they seem to think is impressive. Richard spends god knows how long writing music, so much so that he had to form a second band to relieve the pressure that created. Till subjects himself to the raw agony of having his lyrics dissected over and over again. They're all so committed to their work and each other.

4. This overlaps with 2 but their ability to compromise despite all being very opinionated and pretty stubborn. It's a hard skill to master. I'm mostly thinking right now about Schneider saying he doesn't like the amount of pyro they use but very much in an accepting and not upset way? More just like someone saying they'd prefer their curry a little less spicy. They all disagree somewhat about the importance and inclusion of the pyro but they work out middle ground that everyone seems to accept as good enough, if not exactly what they'd prefer. Every opinion matters.

5. It has to be said, their shows are pretty unique. I completely agree with them when they compare it to an opera. For the most part they know their strengths and limits and focus on making it the best show they can.

I sometimes see people complaining about Till using playback for songs like Puppe and I get it, I like it when singers fuck themselves up too (Amanda Palmer used to lose her voice after every show, I love that, she did have to have surgery because it's a terrible idea), but he's saving his voice so the shows can be consistent? He still has good and bad voice days but he manages himself better, seems to plan things out. Seems like that's probably something he learned from the opera singer to some extent. It's the responsible thing to do and I appreciate that for them specifically, it being a Production more than just a show, consistency seems to be a priority. Quality is more important that it being as real as can be (Zoran take note).

Bonus: the love. The tenderness. The adoration.

#yes im still answering these blame executive dysfunction and my stupid bad experiment mostly #me rambling #rammstein #basically an essay

108 notes · View notes

vampish-glamour · 3 years

Text

Before you go to an lgbt event with a sign that says something like “I’d rather eat cake” or “asexuals don’t give a fuck”...

Remember that in many places, homosexuals and bisexuals can be, have been, and are being arrested and charged for “giving a fuck” because of the laws against same-sex sexual relations. These laws probably existed in your country before they were struck down.

Remember that to homophobes, “giving a fuck” is the worst and most disgusting, depraved, and immoral thing somebody can do if it’s with the same sex.

Remember that those homophobes would very much prefer it if homosexuals “would rather eat cake”. In fact, they put people through abusive therapy to try to make them not attracted to the same sex. If they came out of that abuse saying they’d “rather eat cake”, the homophobes would be overjoyed.

Remember how demonized homosexual sex is, and how it is often the basis of homophobia. Homophobes hate that homosexuals and bisexuals have sex with their same sex. They only see us as walking deviants. They see a soup commercial with two men playing fathers and immediately think of “blasphemy”. If gay and bi people “would rather eat cake”, and “didn’t give a fuck”, that would solve the main problem homophobes have.

Remember that “giving a fuck” is exactly what homophobes hate about gay and bi people. That it’s exactly what disgusts them. That they desperately want us to just prefer cake, because then they wouldn’t have to be reminded of “immoral acts” when they see two women holding hands.

Remember that your stupid signs ignore all of this, and display exactly the oppression and persecution people like you have never had to face, unlike the people who the event you are at is made by and for.

Remember that when you hold a sign that says “I’d rather eat cake” or “don’t give a fuck”, thinking you’re clever, and thinking you’re brave for displaying to the world how you don’t do exactly what the people around you may have been belittled for... you look ridiculous and tone deaf next to the people who could be legally persecuted if they held a sign with the opposite message in the wrong country.

Remember that the homophobes don’t care about you. They see your signs and think “cool, good, great”. They literally could not care less about you wanting cake over sex, or about you not giving a fuck. What they care about is the gay and bi people who do give a fuck (I’m absolutely not going to make a “want sex over cake” comparison, because that’s not actually how it works...), and they care about making sure those gay and bi people know how disgusting and immoral they are for doing so.

Remember that these signs alone are a perfect demonstration of why you don’t need to be considered lgbt, and why you have never and will never needed an event like pride, or any other lgbt event.

Because of this, I will never feel any sense of solidarity towards anyone who holds one of these signs. You don’t get it, and frankly you look incredibly disrespectful.

#remember that post of the people with these signs #at a pride march in a country where gay sex was still illegal??#and people didn’t understand why people were saying that was incredibly disgusting?#yeah.#and not just that I see this A LOT.#glam’s #glam’s angry lesbian hours #exclusionist

110 notes · View notes

the-shelfish-reader · 2 years

Text

THE DEVIL IN THE WHITE CITY:

Murder, Magic, and Madness at the Fair That Changed America

By Erik Larson

The 1893 “World’s Columbian Exposition,” better known as the World’s Fair, opened to the public in May on the southern shore of Lake Michigan in Chicago. The nod to Columbus in the official title was ostensibly to celebrate the 400th anniversary of his voyage’s end in the New World, on October 12, 1892, and the word “fair” was deliberately left out. “Fair” conjured images far too pedestrian for what Chicago was building. “Exposition” was much grander, and the world had become accustomed to the shortened “Expo” as a term for marvels, wonders, excitement, food and drink, games, and activities brought together in one place and offered up (for the price of a ticket) for the public’s enjoyment. America was again taking her turn at hosting this extravaganza, and Chicago had beaten New York City and St. Louis for the right to host. Chicago had also officially become America’s second-most populous city according to the 1890 census, beating out Philadelphia, and civic pride was high. The city needed to show that it had recovered from the Great Fire of 1871, in which 18,000 buildings were destroyed and 100,000 people were left homeless. Civic solidarity strengthened as construction started on the site, known as Jackson Park.

At the same time, a young sociopath from New Hampshire named Herman Webster Mudgett made his way to Chicago, lured by the promise of the fair and its attendant spike in tourism and foot traffic. He would change his name to Dr. H. H. Holmes, taking his new surname from the popular novels of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s brilliant detective. “Dr. Holmes” worked as a pharmacist while building his “hotel” on a big lot at the corner of 63rd and Wallace, near the future Midway and main entrance to the fairgrounds. His dark, ugly, infamous hotel would rise just as the beautiful, shining buildings of the World’s Fair were being built by over 20,000 men.

Herman Mudgett, aka H.H. Holmes

This book is a perfect study in contrasts: the most high-minded American ideals of purity, patriotism, pride, and beauty versus the depravity of a serial murderer of men, women, and children. In particular, the commitment to architectural and landscape design beauty possessed by Daniel Burnham, the Chicago architect who became the fair’s Director of Works, is a great counterpoint to the sociopathic charm, insincerity, greed, and chronic dishonesty of Holmes. These are the two men whose stories are told, accompanied by transcripts of correspondence to and from both men, and the reader comes to know Burnham quite well. Holmes, however much we read his own words, remains a mystery. For me at least, all sociopathic true-crime killers’ minds will forever be impenetrable. Their charm is strictly surface-level; their intelligence bent towards manipulation.

I found the parallel narratives of Holmes’s Chicago years and Burnham’s years spent building the fair beautifully described, and I never got bored. But while I suppose the story of Holmes, his “murder castle,” his victims, and how he disposed of the bodies is fascinating, it’s the other half of the story that really glued me to these pages. The planning and construction of the 1893 World’s Fair, with all its complexity: the architects, the engineers, the steel suppliers, the horticulturists, the design and build of each individually-contracted building (that had to match, design-wise, with all the rest in order for the vision of Burnham’s “White City” to be realized)—the fact that this place existed at all was a miracle of American determinism. Burnham’s story is mainly one of a man with great artistic vision and inner strength plus the cooperation of thousands of people, working together to create and execute a World’s Fair that would AT LEAST rival the 1889 fair in Paris. That fair had the singular distinction of having unveiled to the world a tower, 1000 feet tall, the highest in the world at that time. The designer was Alexandre Gustave Eiffel, and newspapers all over the world reported on the wonder of its design and thrilling viewing opportunities.

Daniel Burnham, as Director of Works, hired Frederick Law Olmsted to design the exposition’s landscaping. Olmsted had designed and built Central Park in New York, as well as the lawns and gardens of several millionaires’ estates. Burnham personally oversaw and approved the design and construction of every building and every exhibit. But time was short—he’d only landed the assignment when the city of Chicago had, in 1891. Jackson Park was a neglected wasteland of scrub-filled sand and water, and all of it would be the foundations upon which he would build a place of such beauty that Chicago’s “Black City” would be repudiated by his “White City.” Burnham ordered that all buildings be painted white, except for the gold dome on the Administration Building and the gold atop the Statue of the Republic. Olmsted directed the digging of lagoons, the creation of a Wooded Island to show off the native Illinois foliage, the placement of gravel walkways, and the judicious planting of vines, ferns, and the occasional colorful wildflower. These two men, then, along with hundreds of other talented creators, built an entire World’s Fair out of nothing in something like 20 months. There are not many photos in the book, but this one shows a main attraction, the Peristyle, along the main plaza:

The dedication day was scheduled for October 12, the very first Columbus Day, celebrating 400 years of America. From 2021, this seems ridiculous, but…hindsight. The ceremony included only the top people in Chicago society and/or top administrators of the build. The fair wasn’t ready to open to the public by October 1892—far from it. Opening day was scheduled for May 1, 1893, and Burnham was nervous. Things had repeatedly gone wrong—workers had been killed in accidents and there were several fires. Unpredictable spring storms caused massive sheets of glass and steel ceilings of the largest building, the Manufacturers and Liberal Arts Building, to fall and shatter on the floor of the building, damaging many exhibits. But Burnham believed in repairing and moving on as quickly as possible from one catastrophe to another. Maybe he found encouragement to keep going in his belief that he had found the one crucial element that would forever distinguish his fair from all others, and possibly even surpass the 1889 Eiffel Tower in innovation and entertainment value.

Burnham knew he needed a centerpiece attraction. He contacted every reputable engineer he knew of from all across the country and solicited ideas. Some of the rejected ideas are HILARIOUS:

“…a tower with the height of 8,947 feet (nearly nine times the height of the Eiffel Tower), with a base one thousand feet in diameter sunk two thousand feet into the earth. Elevated rails would lead from the top of the tower (in Chicago), all the way to New York, Boston, Baltimore, and other cities. Visitors ready to conclude their visit to the fair and daring enough to ride elevators to the top would then toboggan all the way back home.”

“…[another] proposal demanded even more courage from visitors. This inventor…envisioned a tower four thousand feet tall from which he proposed to hang a two-thousand-foot cable of ‘best rubber.’ Attached at the bottom end of this cable would be a car seating two hundred people. The car and its passengers would then be shoved off a platform and fall without restraint to the end of the cable, where the car would snap back upward and continue bouncing until it came to a stop. The engineer urged that as a precaution the ground ‘be covered with eight feet of feather bedding.’”

But one young engineer who worked for the steel-inspection company contracted to the fair submitted a proposal for a completely original structure that had haunted him ever since he first heard the fair would be in Chicago. He’d gone so far as to work out much of the design, including the calculations to test its structural integrity, and he was satisfied his “Wheel” could be built, would work, and would be safe. His name was George W. G. Ferris, and his 264-feet-tall wheel would be built as a main attraction on the Midway, giving riders sweeping views of the fairgrounds and the lake. It would require 28,416 bolts and have 32 cars weighing 13 tons each, carrying an additional 200,000 pounds of human beings. Nobody had ever attempted anything like it, and it was enormously popular. From that point forward, every fair and carnival in America would have a version of the Ferris Wheel.

There’s so much interesting detail about the inventions and wonders on display at the fair, and so many surprising and unexpected guests. Dignitaries from all over the world sailed to America to attend, as did celebrities and aristocrats. Shredded Wheat was introduced to the public here. Visitors could listen to an orchestra playing live in New York via long-distance telephone. The first-ever zipper was exhibited to much enthusiasm. Intrepid visitors could visit the first all-electric kitchen, sample an oddly flavored chewing gum called Juicy Fruit, and munch on a new snack called Cracker Jack. Innovations in science were proven as Nikolai Tesla shot lightning from his fingertips while Edison displayed moving pictures on his “kinetoscope.” Francis Bellamy, an editor of Youth’s Companion, composed a pledge that he thought would be a fine thing for schoolchildren all across the country to recite in their classrooms on Dedication Day. The Bureau of Education agreed, and mailed a copy to virtually every school. It began, “I pledge allegiance to the flag…” And the magnificent Ferris Wheel drew ticket-buyers in exponentially greater numbers each month. Its popularity only grew as it was accepted as being a safe yet exhilarating ride.

The White City as seen from Lake Michigan

Meanwhile, Holmes occupied himself with completion of his monstrous “hotel” that became known as “the castle” in the neighborhood. It was an ugly building, particularly when compared to the brilliant and inviting facades of other buildings in the area, so close to the fair that it seems to have inspired individual owners to spruce up their properties as much as possible. Holmes used no architects or engineers to help build his hotel. He drew the plans himself and never allowed anyone, contractor or supplier, to remain on the job for very long. Later, it was surmised that this unusual practice of hiring and firing workers ensured that no one apart from Holmes had any idea of the scope of the building or what was inside. Corridors veered off at strange angles. Narrow hallways contained too many doors for there to be spacious guest rooms behind them. He also contracted a manufacturer to produce a box to his exact specifications: fireproof brick, eight feet long by three feet wide, “encased in a second box of the same material, with the space between them heated by flames from an oil burner.” His excuse for needing a coffin-sized kiln was to produce and bend plate glass for his fictitious Warner Glass Bending Company. At this point, Holmes had married twice (without divorcing) had at least one child, and had successfully pulled a number of small-to-medium con jobs in several states prior to his arrival in Chicago. He had undoubtedly also committed murder, but now he was poised to offer lodging to unmarried women or groups of women, some with children, who were visiting the fair. Many would never be heard from again, and their fates would be unknown until long after the fair had closed forever.

There is no doubt the 1893 World’s Fair left an indelible impression on America. When you consider that the population of the U.S. was 65 million, and the fair counted 27.5 million visits by tickets sold, it’s absolutely remarkable. On “Chicago Day” in early October of 1893, attendance was 751,026—“more people than had attended any single day of any peaceable event in history.” After it closed on October 30, 1893, Burnham and the rest of the planners and builders fell into a depression. Two days earlier, the wildly popular mayor of Chicago, Carter Harrison, was shot and killed by a young, floridly psychotic Irish immigrant (whose brief story is the book’s subplot.) The city itself succumbed to the sadness and loss a political assassination and the close of the shining, otherworldly White City brought to its residents. The buildings and grounds of the fair began their long slide into disrepair, and newspapers cried that it should all be burnt rather than the city’s residents see the iconic buildings blacken and collapse. This sentiment came true:

“On July 5, 1894, arsonists set fire to the seven greatest palaces of the exposition—Post’s immense Manufacturers and Liberal Arts Building, Hunt’s dome, Sullivan’s Golden Door—all of them. In the Loop men and women gathered on rooftops and in the highest offices of The Rookery, the Masonic Temple, the Temperance Building, and every other high place to watch the distant conflagration. Flames rose a hundred feet into the night sky and cast their gleam far out onto the lake.”

Holmes, too, left an indelible impression. In 1894, evading telegrams and letters from families of young women and their children who’d never returned from the fair or his hotel became unbearable. He was being sued by many of the creditors he still owed for their work on his strange, ugly building. Holmes decided it was time to leave Chicago, first setting fire to the top floor of his building in an attempt to erase it and its secrets, but the fire failed to progress beyond that floor. He tried to file a fire damage claim with his insurance company, but they refused payment and opened an arson investigation for which he was arrested and jailed in Philadelphia in 1895. But it was thanks to the obsessive work of one detective, Frank Geyer, that a murder charge was added and many more human remains would be found on Holmes’ properties. The alleged murder for which he would be convicted wasn’t of any of the young women he’d lured into a romantic relationship, but of Benjamin Pitezel, his assistant and employee at the hotel. Pitezel’s two small daughters were also missing and hadn’t been seen or heard from in months. He was murdered by Holmes after leaving Chicago for Indianapolis. His remains, and, cruelly, the remains of Pitezel’s two small daughters, were found by Det. Geyer in a rented house in Irvington, Indiana. Holmes was in jail in Philadelphia for insurance fraud, indicted for murder in Indiana, and he was wanted in Toronto, again for murder.

Eventually Holmes stood trial for the murder of Benjamin Pitezel, was found guilty and sentenced to death by hanging. His execution was carried out in May 1896. After his conviction, he confessed to 27 murders, 9 of which were confirmed prior to his death. Authorities estimated his count at 200 victims, but this was never proven. Was he America’s first serial killer? Certainly many other true crime writers believe so.

This book was just as fascinating to read now as it was the first time. It’s much more difficult to report on nonfiction than fiction. Names, dates, and places need to be accurate, and I’m always aware that I’m trying to summarize real events. That matters to me. I take far more notes/reference the text when I’m writing a book report that’s also a true story, but still, errors can happen. Any mistakes in this book report are my own. Erik Larson is a brilliant writer, and I own several of his books, so this won’t be the last time I write a report on one of his extraordinary true stories.

#book report #The Devil In The White City #Erik Larson #nonfiction #true crime #10/10 stars #1893 World’s Fair #Chicago

4 notes · View notes

evidencefile · 3 years

Text

@prinita.thevarajah on @southasia.art, 11/11/2019 to 11/19/2019

“Hello, Prinita @prinita.thevarajah here. This week I’ll be sharing my thoughts about Eelam cultural identity formation through Tamil cinema (Kollywood) and the Eelam diaspora.

Eelam Tamils are native to Sri Lanka and constitute the largest diasporic Tamil community outside of India. Not all diasporic Tamils share a collective sense of Tamil identity, though Kollywood has been crucial in marking and maintaining one’s Tamil identity in the diaspora, especially where Tamil communities often hold minority status. As an Eelam kid in Australia, I often looked towards Kollywood to shape my understanding of what it meant to be Tamil. The child of Eelam refugees who fled Sri Lanka in the 80s as war between the government and Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam (LTTE) erupted, ongoing violence carried out against Eelam Tamils halted our community's capacity in developing a 'popular culture’ of it’s own. To be an Eelam Tamil is to be part of a community whose territorial, cultural and ethno-linguistic identity have been so heavily discriminated against to the point of genocide. The trauma of war seeped into our identity formation, and our fragmented diaspora while incredibly resilient, had not one single cultural representation to rely on. So, despite a lack of representation, Kollywood became the pillar that Tamilness sat upon. And while the articulation of Dravidian identity and Tamil nationalism is profound in Kollywood, the struggles of Eelam Tamils fit well within the profound self proclamations of Tamil language, culture and tradition propagated by Kollywood, but solidarity failed to materialize on the screens.

This week I want to explore representations of Eelamness in Kollywood, highlight artists in the diaspora contributing to an Eelam cultural renaissance and ask - what does it mean to re-imagine Eelam popular culture and how can we reclaim our Eelmaness by de-centering Indian ideals of Tamilness?

Despite yearning for a Eelam identity that is whole, I cannot discount the profound impact Kollywood has had on molding me into a proud Tamil. As a child in Sydney, my Appa contributed to Inbathamil Oli (Sweet Sound of Tamil) - a 24 hour Tamil radio station.

He would take me along to spend overnight shifts at the station, and I would listen on fondly to his musings over the air. The theme song for the station was Mettu Podu from the film 1994 Tamil film, Duet. 20 years on, the song still sticks with me as an anthem for the strength, resilience and beauty of the Tamil community.

ஆண் : தங்கமே தமிழுக்கில்லை தட்டுப்பாடு ஒரு சரக்கிருக்குது முறுக்கிருக்குது மெட்டுப் போடு Tamil will never be lacking & I will make music to proclaim it! எத்தனை சபைகள் கண்டோம் எத்தனை எத்தனை பகையும் கண்டோம் அத்தனையும் சூடங்காட்டிச் சுட்டுப் போடு We have seen many fights We have been through many wars Forget them all and be free of them! மெட்டுப் போடு மெட்டுப் போடு என் தாய் கொடுத்த தமிழுக்கில்லை தட்டுப்பாடு Make music, make sound With the tongue of Tamil my mother gave me Tamil will never be lacking

MATERIALIZED AS TRAUMATIZED// Today I want to focus on the representation of Eelam Tamils in Kollywood as one that is flattened without nuance: a people in constant agony and despair, solidifying us in our state of trauma. It is certainly necessary to provide an understanding of the ramifications of genocide for Eelam Tamils. Where historically, our struggle has been erased: the denial of genocide and failure by the international community to intervene or hold the Sri Lankan state accountable for war crimes, the depiction of the plight of Eelam people in Kollywood is assumed to be informative. But I ask, why all trauma and no strength? If Kollywood could make room for us as broken people, why not also portray our vigor and irepressibility? How do we see ourselves as Eelam people when the only representation of us in popular culture is a community that is defeated?

Historically, Kollywood has been uninterested in Tamil diasporic subjects. It's preoccupation has been in the entrenched ideas of Tamil culture, tradition, modernity and ethno-linguistic nationalism. The praxis of Tamil cinema is guided by the everyday practices of Tamil lives in Tamil Nadu and fails to incorporate the question of identity that the diaspora grapples with. Consider that the political struggle of Eelam Tamils heralded a new phase of militant Tamil nationalism, created a society that reformers and poets of Tamil Nadu could only imagine, and waged a war for liberation that was of epic proportions in both triumph and tragedy. It is a grievance that a culture industry in the ‘heart of Tamil civilization’ did not give adequate artistic due in its mainstream medium to an achievement that is claimed by many a Tamil nationalist to have been the ‘height of Tamil civilization’

It’s clear that diasporic Tamil identities are shored up as an anomaly to normative Tamil cinematic identity. Looking closer at the 2000 film Thenali shows the vexed and complex relationship between the Eelam Tamils and those from Tamil Nadu.

Thenali (Kamal Hassan) is an Eelam man from Jaffna. He is a hyper anxious neurotic used by his psychiatrist to derail the career of Dr Kailash. Thenali falls in love with Dr Kailash’s sister, Janaki. The film follows an enraged Dr Kailash’s attempt to eliminate Thenali despite Thenali’s naive quest to please the Dr. Subtle distinctions portray the disparate identity of Eelam Tamils. From the Dr Kailash questioning why Thenali speaks Tamil differently, to Thenali painted as a miserable jest juggling irrational fears as a result of having his home raided by soldiers, his father attacked and mother raped. The film seeks to other Thenali, the traumatized Eelam man who just can’t seem to get it right. Towards the end of the film Dr Kailaish adopts words from the Jaffna dialect, but immediately corrects himself upon realization. If Thenali is the oppressed Eelam Tamil, Dr Kailash is a metonymy for India, whose help Thenali seeks again and again, refusing to see anything wrong in the doctor or his intentions, elevating him to the position of a divine being.

The political history of Tamil Nadu is riddled with moments when the people of Tamil Nadu and the state have been sympathetic to the cause of the Eelam Tamils, resulting in policies allowing Eelam Tamils to stay as refugees and also in offering us financial aid. Much like the fluctuation between compulsions that drive its foreign policy and the sympathy for Tamils expressed in Tamil Nadu, Dr Kailash declares his predicament that he is unable to disclose the thoughts he harbours. At the point when he thinks he is close to eliminating Thenali, he declares, ‘there is no joy in living as in watching destruction’, a statement that resonates deeply with the oft-repeated criticism of the Government of India and Tamil Nadu’s silence in the wake of the Sri Lankan army action in 2009 that resulted in the deaths of 100 000 Eelam Tamils

The film features the song "Injerungo" (slide 5&6) which supposedly includes Jaffna slang - but ask anyone actually from Eelam and they’ll tell you that Kamal Hassan missed the mark almost completely - Eelam kids, what do y’all think

Kannathil Muthamittaal (2002) is probably Kollywood’s most comprehensive take on the human cost and emotional toll endured by Eelam Tamils, complete with visceral descriptions and images of war torn Sri Lanka. The film tells the story of an Eelam girl, Amudha who is adopted by an Indian Tamil couple, and the family’s journey back to Sri Lanka to reacquaint mother and daughter. Her biological parents abandon Amudha to join the ‘rebel cause’ who we can assume is the LTTE. Rather predictably, considering the labeling of the LTTE as a terrorist organization, there is no overt reference made to the group. The rebels are depicted as armed men who speak Jaffna Tamil and the audience are left to form their own interpretation. Much like Thenali remains silent about the cause of Thenali’s oppression, Kannathil Muthamittaal resists making explicit reference to the cause of conflict or parties involved. Expectedly, the film holds arms traffickers responsible for the plight of Eelam Tamils, as opposed to the Sinhalese government, erasing actual genocidal intent since 1948. After visiting the island and witnessing the helplessness of the Eelam people, Amudha and her family return to Tamil Nadu. The underlying message is that the Indian Tamil is both politically and culturally superior and more empowered than the Eelam Tamil.

A common thread in both Kannathil Muthamittall and Thenali is that in the traumatized portrayal of Eelam subjects, Kollywood domesticates Eelam Tamils for an Indian Tamil public. Eelam Tamils are removed of their political agency and are presented as an object of pity. Rather than demanding concrete political solidarity, an abstract humanitarian sentiment is requested. As if to say, “ooh, look how they suffer. Let’s marry them. Or adopt them. Assimilate them into our safe lives. Let us be their providers.” Charity is the gesture appealed for, but there is always something fundamentally depraving in charity.

Tonight I want to make space to think about what it looks like to reimagine and reconstruct an Eelam Tamil cultural identity, away from Indian Tamil ideals.

An accurate portrayal of the political, social and existential condition of the Eelam Tamils is yet to be found in Kollywood. And as Eelam Tamils, we reject being labeled as Sri Lankan as to do so means aligning with the very state that attempted to erase our existence. What does this then mean for our capacity to develop as a people within the island? The North-East of Sri Lanka, the Tamil homeland, is one of the most heavily-militarized regions in the world. Currently, according to the Adayalaam Centre for Policy Research, in the Mullaitivu District - where the last phase of armed conflict was fought - at least 60 000 Sri Lankan army troops are stationed. That’s 25% of the 243 000 military personnel of the whole country. Our people in Eelam are under constant surveillance and control, the military's presence in Eelam facilitates displacement and land grabbing that consequently destabilizes and disrupts the day to day activities of our community. Survival becomes the goal with the preservation and development of culture an understandable after thought.

Considering the impossibility of any free Eelam Tamil cinema developing under the Sri Lankan state, we turn to the diaspora. This year marks the 10th anniversary of the genocide against Eelam people, and as we move into the new decade, it's vital to reflect and consider deeply the history we pave forward as a community. How are we creating stories for ourselves away from the narrow narrative that has been bolstered by Kollywood? How are we reclaiming the identities that the state of Sri Lanka tries to squash daily? At what point do we move away from memorializing genocide to depicting our resilience and expansiveness?

In the pursuit of an Eelam identity that is total, fragmented identities of caste, kinship, class, and region are devalued, uniting diasporic Tamils and strengthening our affinity to ūr. I want to spend the next few days exploring what it looks like to embrace our Eelamness fully as a diasporic people. I believe that in doing the work to understand and articulate ourselves wholly, we as diaspora Eelam Tamils begin to heal the trauma that has trickled down through our bloodlines. Our narrative has a destiny that is full of autonomy, solidarity and collaboration.

HIGHLY EXPLOSIVE/READY/RAW

I begin my imagination on the embodiment of diasporic Eelamness by exploring the legacy of Mathangi/Maya Arulpragasm, M.I.A. Not to revere or glorify, instead to honor and applaud her immense strides to give us visibility while fully embracing the multifaceted and radical notion of being an Eelam Tamil. Maya remains one of the only widely known representations of our community, from our community. That she is as revolutionary, innovative & resilient as she is is a reflection of the immense talent, ingenuity and pure force of Eelam people. Through her art, she amplifies the placelessness and the cultural and political contradictions that come with being an Eelam Tamil in a hyper-globalized world. The fact that she is so often dismissed, ridiculed and as of late ‘cancelled’, is clarification of her power in undermining and challenging unequal systems of control. From flipping off the Super Bowl to being banned from Sri Lanka, Maya is an unapologetic weapon of freedom.

Maya is a DIY artist guided by her trajectory from refugee to icon. Her strength in bringing bits and pieces together: beats, words, images, ideas - to create something new while centering her narrative as an Eelam woman, epitomizes the journey of an Eelam Tamil. Against a culture that glamorizes reality & equates beauty to consumption, Maya provokes a discussion about how the minority live, closing the distance between here and everywhere else. To be a diasporic Eelam Tamil means to be gaslighted by an entire nation, and yet moving uncompromisingly forward in being deeply inspired in our current contexts to bring change, revolutionize & decolonize. And while M.I.A. cannot go back home, we can.

Sunshowers came out when I was 9 years old. One Saturday morning, I crawled out of bed to watch music videos and inhale cereal and suddenly become entranced when Maya appeared, the hypnotic jungle beats blowing my mind. Up until then, the most representation I had as an Eelam kid was my reflection on a blank TV screen.

Reflecting on the music video now and it's images of brown women organizing, I draw parallels to the ideals and aims of the Women's Front of the LTTE. While it is not productive to linger on what could've been, I do believe that a radical imagination will set us free - and perhaps, this was Maya's intention, to provoke profound fantasies to revive the legacy of our ancestors.The aims of the Women’s Front were to: secure the right of self-determination of Tamil Eelam, to abolish oppressive caste discrimination and feudal customs such as the dowry system; and to eliminate all discrimination, secure social, political, and economic equality.

At the end of verse 1, Maya chants 'like PLO, I don't surrendo', making reference to the Palestinian Liberation Organization, emphasizing the interconnectedness of struggles throughout the world and the need to collaborate with and show solidarity with groups of people who experience similar discrimination under colonization. How can transnational, decolonial solidarity allow evolution to our identity as Eelam people? What does it mean to maintain the radical, non-violent goals Eelam within the diaspora?

BIRD FLU

2006/The track draws on the sonics of urumi/gaana that most Eelam kids will recognize. You know the sound cos when you hear it you can’t stop moving: it’s an infectious outbreak/dance break. Maya swims in a sea of folks who look like they could be my Anna or Thangachi - the visuals look like the homeland. It’s the noise of freedom, the resistance of dominant interpretation. Within the sonic dance break of Bird Flu, Maya cultivates themes of militarized warfare and global dispossession spins them into a collective resource for imagining the alternate for Eelam Tamils.

Running with this idea of ‘flu’ and ‘contagion’, with the sound and it’s accompanying visuals, Maya emphasizes the need to spread ideas of alternative utopian possibilities, collectivity, belonging, and pleasure in the midst of & despite devastation by warfare. For me, Bird Flu provides a refreshing moment of criticality—an opportunity to reactivate our political imaginations and reconceptualize eelam community.

SRI LANKA JUST ELECTED A WAR CRIMINAL AS PRESIDENT and I continue my attempt to unravel Eelamness. With the ache in my heart and rage in my chest I ask: how do we move forward?

When Sri Lanka repeatedly assigns power to murderers and thieves, Kollywood tries to cement us as wounded and the rest of the world exclaims ‘oh Sri Lanka! That’s near India right!!???!!?' how are we as a community dealing? Where our experiences of genocide are dismissed transnationally, how do we divert fury and desire for validation of our struggle to healing? How are we to heal when the scab keeps being torn open? What are our responsibilities, as artists, to bring rejuvenation and radical change?

As we grieve for the homeland, I encourage you to think about the privilege that comes with being in the diaspora. Our access to resources expands our capacity to strategize and organize: we cannot limit ourselves. Christopher Kulendran Thomas is an Eelam artist based in London & Berlin. Thomas’s 'New Eelam’ disregards the boundaries of the white cube to project an alternate reality of citizenship and ownership. Provoking the art world itself, Thomas is interested in how his work as an artist can bring structural and social change. New Eelam is presented as a real estate start up of sorts with a housing model grounded in collective international co-ownership: subscribers pay the same amount to access different houses across the world. Working alongside an architect and team of real estate, finance, law and tech folks, Thomas seeks to provoke conversations around property and migration. Our identity as a people is one that is marked by consistent displacement and disruption. We are dispersed but profoundly connected. New Eelam imagines a future that brings autonomy in migration and allows us to maintain the idea of an Eelam the transcends borders. Freedom of movement increases opportunities to collaborate, and our collaboration as a diaspora is essential in the liberation and legacy of Eelam.

When the riots began, My Thatha was the principal at Jaffna College in Killinochi. His school shut down immediately and when I was 6 months, he moved to Sydney and into our home on Burlington Road. Being in a war affected refugee household brings with it a plethora of traumas & my relationship with my grandfather was my safe space. He is an artist - and his idea of child minding was reciting Thirukurral to me as I listened at his feet, entranced: my fingers often swirling in acrylic paints or homemade clay. When I was scared, he would serenade me with sangitham, gamakas cartwheeling from his belly through his chest. Sometimes at night I would tip toe out of the bedroom I shared with my parents and older siblings into Thatha’s room. More often than not, he would be in a state of hypnosis, brushing away at a canvas with images that usually resembled home. Reflecting on this time in my life, I understand that creative expression was Thatha’s device for healing. Not only did his art allow him to reconnect with Eelam, but it also allows him to rewrite and reimagine his narrative.

My attempt to dissect our Eelam Tamil identity has been perplexing yet empowering. As a community heavily persecuted against within the island, distressingly traumatized within the diaspora and yet profoundly capable and irrepressible, I wonder - how can we as a community of diasporic artists begin to shift our narrative? They burnt down the Jaffna library for a reason, they saw our vision and were threatened by it. How can we harness the collective rage we feel productively in a way that not only allows for the liberation of our own people but inspires expansive radical change?

My fellow Eelam people, I challenge you to think large - move away from the commodified and the curated, the white cube and other structures and systems that attempt to contain our ideas. I encourage you to think about art as a a movement for change as opposed to an aesthetic. Organizing is a form of art, protest is a form of art and so is survival. We must use our creativity as an imaginative space that provokes discussion, dialogue and education across struggles. How, through our art, can we make the invisible, visible while listening and working alongside our Eelam community at home?”

Original posts available here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, and here. Wanted to repost this from @southasia.art on Instagram because of how informative it was.

#tamil #tamil film #sri lanka #kollywood #m.i.a.

8 notes · View notes